To Catch a Spider
by Wyrdlight
Summary: Greeb, a hapless farmer, gets involved with the inquisition and powers far beyond his understanding, whilst on the hunt for the man with no name. Rated M to be safe. Reviews very welcome!


_Note: THis is my first attempt at story writing, please be nice! ) Reviews welcome with very open arms!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Warhammer Universe or anything within it, all that and anything associated with it belongs to Games Workshop._

**Chapter 1 – Beginnings**

A grim world, Caradan floats alone in the void. Its erratic orbit keeps it close to its parent star, a cold blue dwarf that's burned in the darkness for eons. A grim world of vast mountain ranges and dark forests. Rugged uplands hide valleys where the sun has never shone which grudgingly give way to the moors.

The moors, was there ever a place less likely inspire men to deeds of valour or works of beauty than this? Unending miles of hard black stone and grey moss, wracked by fierce storms and devoid of all but the most foolhardy of inhabitants. The moors run down to the ocean and it is here atop cliffs bathed in the fury of waves unrelenting that people choose too make their home.

Darkstone is a meagre settlement of squat houses and dank warehouses packed with dried fish and Memish, the moist bread made from moss and mushrooms. The Emperors light shines only dimly here, a single chapel clings to the heights as though frightened it will fall. The congregation is small and attends the weekly service more out of boredom than any real sense of faith or duty and the priests themselves seem too tired to do more than done their habits and chant half heartedly.

There is little excitement for the people of Caradan, once every six months or so a navy patrol runs through the system and checks that no trouble has befallen them. Once each year a motley collection of things that can only be called ships in the loosest of terms arrive to trade tools and luxuries for Memish and fish.

In short, a grim world lacking in beauty and joy,

but as they say, hope is found in the most unlikely of places.

Greeb sighed and hunched down further within his rain slicker. He was bored and weary, the task his father had set him and long lost its interest. Moss picking. How he hated moss picking, dull and uninspiring as it was he knew it was the lifeblood of his family.

One day, his farther said they would have enough saved to buy a boat and then they could fish for Greenback and Blade fin and all the other assorted sea life that were prized as delicacies on half a dozen hive worlds. On Caradan the fishermen were at the top of the ladder, they could afford to buy from the off-world traders and owned all sort of fabulous things such as torches and timepieces and clothes made in Grox-hide, some even had access to synthetic materials.

Greeb sighed again and thought of the wealth one must need to own such fabrics, what he would not give for a pair of rubberised boots such as those owned by the Mayors son Oneb.

Greeb's daydreaming was brought to an end as he noticed, by the light of his lantern a soft glow ahead in the darkness. Moss, he thought, it was best to go picking by candlelight. By day the moss was grey and blended in so seamlessly with the rock that finding it was all but impossible although it glowed softly at night and finding it was a simple if wet affair.

Kneeling Greeb started working his scraper under the thick carpet, slicing in neat sheets that he then rolled into bundles and tied with string. With a grunt Greeb heaved the sodden package across his shoulders and started for home. At sixteen he was of typical Caradan stock, short, his sparse frame packed with wirey muscles from endless hours of hard walking and heavy lifting. Pale skin and pointed features form a face that a kind man would call plain. His best feature he, like most Caradan men thought was his hair, the product of long isolation from the wider gene-pool of humanity it shone silver in the light of his lantern.

Home was close now, over the low ridge ahead sat a small cottage, typical of most Caradan homes. It boasted a moss roof and four rooms on a single floor, raised on stone pilings a foot or so above ground, flash floods were the main killer on Caradan, alongside old age and infirmity. A long, low building sat at right angles to the cottage. Greeb headed inside the store-house stretched away into the darkness and the wind made keening sounds through the holes cut into the floor and walls. Heaps of moss were stacked in neat piles, this was the drying house and it was almost full Greeb thought with a smile. Soon the great ships would come and with them all manner of strange outlandish people with things trade and tales to tell.

Greeb could hardly wait.

Space ripples, like silk in the wind, then in utter silence it breaks. Through the rent comes a ship, battered and twisted its once clean lines marred by gaping wounds and jagged edges. Inside corridors are lit by the dull red of emergency lights, the slow flashing reveals leaking pipes and half-sealed bulkheads. The walls are dirty and dark stains streak them in artful patterns. Here and there lie weapons, spent and useless of their masters there is no sign.

The remainders of the bridge. Consoles are charred husks, screens dull and lifeless. In the centre of the bridge there sits a throne, massive and beautiful, at least at a distance. Its gilt-edge carvings catch the light and gleam. Upon the throne sits the remains of a man, shredded and torn streamers of desiccated flesh swing lazily from the wires and consoles around him.

The shadows behind the throne stir, and something smiles.

The ship drifts on towards the fitful glow, of a pale blue star.


End file.
